


Ashes Ashes

by FortinbrasFTW



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Zombies, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-17
Updated: 2012-07-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 04:51:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FortinbrasFTW/pseuds/FortinbrasFTW
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zombie!AU for ASOIAF inspired by this amazing thing: http://rachmaninoffs.tumblr.com/post/27123794529/game-of-thrones-meme-six-locations-alternate</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ashes Ashes

**Author's Note:**

> This got a little out of control but oh well- if this is interesting to people I could do some more, other POVs or keeping with this one. If there's anything specific people want to see let me know.

It was raining- again, the third damned day in a row. The sound clattered off the tin roof of the shed they'd managed to find that night. They should move- find somewhere else, he knew, they both knew but it had been a long day in what seemed like a year of long days- through the woods in the thick and the dark and the endless endless sound of the rain, wet cold running down the back of his neck, soaking into his bones until he felt he'd never be warm again.

But there were worse things.

The rain fell and fell- making the dull metal off the rusting cars shine outside. There was a chain wrapped around one of the closer trees as if a dog had been tied there once, which wouldn't have been so strange if the collar weren't still attached to the last link. A swing hung mutely, swaying back and forth in the light wind as the sky darkened to blue. It looked as if it had been some sort of edge of town repair shop once, before it all.

"Might be it'll let up tomorrow." Davos muttered from where he sat on an old tire a few feet across from him.

Stannis barely grunted his reply, peering out into the dark tree line that was altogether too close.

It wasn't the cold or the wet that frayed their nerves to exhaustion. It was the sound. The endless shattering of water bludgeoning the earth into submission each and every second, masking any other noises that might crack of creep out of the misting dark.

And that tin roof wasn't helping.

"We should move." Stannis said as he looked into the night, his hand idly fingering the revolver he'd kept close since that first day.

"I know it," Davos said. He leaned back against the tin siding, letting his head thunk backwards as he sighed.

"But we can't keep going like this," He protested, in that gentle way Stannis had grown to know so well over these past months… or had it been years?

"She said she'd meet us. If we're not there--"

"I know what she said." Davos snapped, ducking his head in sudden shame just after the sharp words scrambled free.

The silence hung about them, dented furiously by the shattering rain above.

"I know you don't trust her--" Stannis began.

"No, I don't… but I don't mean to question you." his companion insisted. Stannis glanced at his face and saw that he was painfully sincere. _He can question, he does, what makes him feel he has to be so?_

Davos was almost squirming where he sat.

"Speak your mind," Stannis said, suddenly all too irritated with the damp scratchiness of his sweater and the damned endless drilling of the rain, but he trued to keep his voice calm despite it. He knew his companion just had his best interest at heart, buy _why_ still left him stuck between sleep some nights.

"Why are we trusting her?" Davos asked with tired eyes, "What can she possibly do for us?"

"She knows a way in. I've told you- you heard her tell you for god's sake."

"I don't know what I heard her tell me, " He muttered, crossing his arms in front of his chest and kicking some debris out of the way with his booted feet, "She only speaks in riddles and vague promises."

"This one wasn't vague," Stannis said, sliding the cold reassuring weight of the gun back under his belt, letting his hand touch the sack of ammunition as had become thoughtless habit, "She'll get us in."

"What makes you so sure?" Davos asked, staring at him in that slightly unnerving way of his.

"She the option- the only option."

"No- not the only-"

"I told you, if we go in alone we won't make it within a mile with our guts intact!" He gritted out the words, frustration and cold getting the best of him.

"We could try." The man insisted, eyes a good deal too wide, too hopeful for someone his age.

"We could," He conceded, "And we could fail."

He felt the man's stare harden, "Do you think I want that?" He asked, voice calm but stones under it, "Do you think I don't want to get through."

Stannis felt his own jaw tighten and grind, "No. No I don't."

He felt Davos' guilt dripping off of him for even asking, and almost hated him for it.

"I know what it means to you." Stannis said, "And you know I might turn the same question back on you."

Davos nodded almost miserably in the dark and after a moment pulled the shotgun into his lap and began to clean it.

 _You can go,_ He might have said, _No one is telling you to stay. No one is telling you to follow me, to listen to me._

But he didn't say that. He hadn't, for so long, all the crowded moments when the words had flashed through his mind. And he didn't know if he never said them because he was afraid that he would indeed go- finally leaving him alone with just the silence and a back without eyes, or maybe it was something else entirely that gave pause to his words.

The rain drummed impossibly harder overhead, it was darker- almost dark enough obscure the tree line only meters away.

 _We're not moving_ , they both knew it, he just had to steel himself now for the inevitable argument over the first watch, which somehow he always lost.

He let himself glance over to his companion, watching how he carefully cleaned the shotgun, the same one he'd had since the beginning. How along ago had it been? He couldn't remember- it seemed even the seasons had sickened and gone wrong since all this happened. 

Something snapped close by and Davos' head shot up, his hands automatically sliding into place on the gun in his lap.

Stannis sat, perfectly still, hardly noticing that his own hand had tightened around the revolver on his hip.

A moment passed and then another. 

Finally he felt his body relax. He leaned back again and let himself be at somewhat happy, or at least contented, with the tin roof overhead. The rain had done little for the blood stains on Davos' brown leather jacket he'd worn for so long Stannis was shocked the thing hadn't fallen to pieces.

He felt his hand slip inside his own trench coat, his long fingers tapping reassuringly against the thick folded paper he'd taped inside a rolled up garbage bag to keep out of the wet. Every once in a while he'd slip the documents free, and pull back their sealing to make sure the words were indeed still there.

_Casterly Pharmacutical, patent and experimintation approved for Yersinia Pestis based vaccination…_

 

_Noted rates of viral expansion at 380% through zones A, B, and G …_

 

_Expect casualty rates to escalate…_

 

_Calculated risks assumed…_

 

_Reanimation…_

 

_Potential…_

 

_Potential…_

 

_Potential…_

 

He didn't need to see it again, nor Ned Stark's hastily scrambled signature at the bottom of his hand written note.

 

Stannis withdrew his hand sharply. The damned rain wasn't stopping yet and he suddenly felt trapped in it. He shifted his longs legs under him and stuck them out angrily.

Davos raised half an eyebrow in his direction but didn't say a word, just sat there, wedding ring glinting on his finger almost as dully as the oiled wood of the shotgun in his hands.

 _He's waiting for me to go to sleep,_ he thought resentfully, _so he can take the watch, without argument._

He contented himself with watching his actions, it was too dark to see anything more than a few feet from his face anyhow.

His motions were still clumsy, even after all this time. Stannis let himself stare at the mutilated hand. He still heard the sounds sometimes in the night, the scratches, the breaking wood, the slamming metal, the sharpest sound of all- the steel hitting bone. 

It had been raining that night too.

There were times, when he looked at his friend's face and still saw him screaming, begging deliriously with tears streaming down his face.

He pushed that thought away.

But somehow, the claws still held and he found himself staring blindly into the rain and as the memories seeped in- persistent as the damp.

He'd only meant to go home for the car. He'd only meant to stop- he needed proper transport in any case, some supplies, at the very least to leave a note…

Maybe he'd thought, not hoped, _thought_ that Renly would be there. Maybe if he was sickeningly honest with himself he'd just wanted to look at the place, stand in the halls and smell that thick oaken scent always vaguely reminiscent of pipe tobacco once more. It was foolish. Reporters always exaggerated, dirty profession truly, fear mongers and liars the lot of them, chaos seekers with no shame and fewer morals. The road had been blocked true, but people panic. It was one of the things they did best in fact. 

Maybe he'd been foolish to ignore the signs. He certainly had been foolish to set aside the manilla envelope with his name hastily scrawled across it and "Doctor Eddard Stark"  scribbled in the corner, but he couldn't blame himself truly, it was tax season after all, and there were things that simply needed to be seen to. 

He'd opened it eventually- the same day the first reports had started. He'd simply turned off the TV blaring over head across the office, like he usually did when they were playing filth.

And then he'd opened the envelope.

And he'd read it.

Then he'd read it again.

And again.

He stared at it, for a day, and then another. He'd turn to the laptop and stare at the spreadsheets, spreadsheets made sense- they worked exactly as they were supposed to work. But then the TV would snap to life out in the main room above the cubicles and he would sigh with increasing grit, stomp out, and switch it back off. It was almost at the point where he would have to confiscate their remote.

By the end of the week people had started to leave. Streams of gleaming cars only going south slipped down the city streets below, and when the police report came through, about Stark's 'suicide', and 'circumstantial evidence', and 'nervous breakdown inevitable', he knew what he had to do.

He'd get the envelope where it needed to be- to headquarters, to Kings Landing. He'd show it to the authorities. He'd make sure it was handled properly, through the right channels with the right results. He'd find what truth there was to be had there, see that those who needed to paid the price that needed to be paid. Wrongs had to be righted- if there wasn't that, what else was there?

If he hadn't taken his bike he might not have even made it out that day. The roads were packed to a dead stop even outside of the city.

The noise was obscene, not just the horns but the yells and every once in a while the sound of breaking glass. _People panic_ , he told himself, _it's what they do._

He'd gotten off the road as soon as possible- the looks some of the quieter members of the crowd with the darker eyes were giving his bicycle stuck with him and he cut of down an old trail he'd used once or twice.

Their father had done well when he'd bought Storms End, close enough to the city but surrounded by a more than decent estate they had always kept forested. The sea was close as well, just a short walk to the ledge and then down to the pier where they normal kept "Fury". Renly had always hated the name, he'd suggested "The Pearl" or "Seiren's Song" but it was bad luck to rename boats, and for once Stannis had fallen back on a superstitious excuse.

He cut through the last of the wooden trail and broke onto the crunching graveled drive that led to the house.

The gate was open. Strange.

He swung his leg over while the bike was still rolling and ran with it a few steps before stopping in the drive in front of the house he was raised in.

It felt too long since he'd been here. Most nights he spent in the utilitarian loft in the city, or even, more often then not, sleepless at his desk. But those places would never be home.

The house was solid grey stone, tall, and some might say dreary, but when the sun hit it from the west over the sea in the afternoon, there was no place in the world more beautiful to him. His father had wanted to clear the forest, but his mother had insisted. The tallest oak trees lay splayed across the back garden, dropping pools of shadow elegantly over the dark green of the thick lawn.

Robert had given Storms End to Renly. He'd given Stannis Dragonstone Holdings.

Stannis tried to convince himself it was practical- that he had the shrewder mind for the business and Robert knew that, but after the years of financial juggling Stannis had done to let them keep their family in the home to begin with he might have thought, well…But this was Robert, and Stannis could never forget the niggling sensation that he had always hated the business and dumping something he despised on Stannis' shoulders put the final gust of wind in the sails that pushed him into a financially rewarding and mentally undemanding partnership with Casterly Pharmacuticals.

 _"That and the discount he'll get on 'masculinity enhancers'"_ Renly had joked at the time.

Renly didn't seem to be at the house this particular afternoon.

Something was certainly wrong. There was no denying that.

Everything was quite still. It was always quiet back here, especially this late in the evening when the light was burning away into deep indigo all around. But tonight... No. Something was certainly wrong.

"Hullo!" He heard himself call. His voice echoed stupidly into nothingness around him.

Off in the woods he heard a jay scream.

He walked carefully towards the stairs. The door was open.

He was about to reach out and push it enough to enter when something caught his eye. 

There was a man in the garden.

He was hardly moving. Just standing there really. This had happened before, tourists too stupid to know it wasn't a museum or a historical site, and the gate was open after all.

He stepped toward the stranger, hating the strange unwanted way his gut was twisting inside him.

"Hullo!" He called again.

The man was still meters away, his back towards Stannis. He seemed youngish- blond hair. One of his knees was turned inward rather oddly and he seemed to be staring down at the ground.

"Excuse me," Stannis said, icing his words with what the office had grown to call 'that tone'.

He was closer now, "Excuse me, I don't know what you think you are doing. Please, leave at once,  this is a private residen…"

His voice trailed off. He was looking at the man, properly now and close enough to see that he was missing one of his arms.

The figure turned, slowly, wretchedly and then it seemed to see him.

Stannis stumbled backward, the dewy grass slipping under his work shoes and sending him falling.

The thing stared at him through dead eyes. It's skin hung in tatters, rigged deep slices through it's flesh as if someone had taken a weed wacker to it. The abdomen was almost completely open, and one long cord of intestine dripped down and thumped against the man's jean covered knee with each staggering step.

It was walking. Walking towards him. 

He scrambled backwards dumbly, still unable to take his stare away from the horror in front of him.

And then it was moving faster, desperately reaching out for him, raking the air between them and opening it's broken jaw wider, wide enough for Stannis to see the bits of purple flesh stuck between red stained teeth.

Stannis turned and pushed himself up, scrambling desperately to get to his feet, and he did, but his ankle caught under him and twisted. He swore loudly as the pain shot up his leg. But he wouldn't fall again, he couldn't fall again. 

He could feel the thing behind him, hear it moving faster and faster over the grass and he tried to run but almost gasped at the pain under the pressure. 

How close was it? He spun to see behind him and it was too much. He slipped. He fell. He turned to scramble back and then he felt the hand sink into his shoulder. It tore the sleeve as he pulled back and turned to that wretched tattered face, sliced to ribbons and gleaming like over ripe meat in the sun.

Stannis' leg shot out, catching it's shin bone and cracking it. It crashed down but hardly seemed to notice.  A hand caught his ankle. His hands scrambled behind him, something, anything, and then they closed.

The croquet mallet smashed into the side of the monster's head, breaking the skull like the top of some foul creme brûlée and spilling the contents across the lawn. 

He wrenched his ankle free and hit it again and again and again, until there was noting left to hit, just a pile of grey-red gunk and a dumbly twitching body. 

His breathes came hard in the sudden stillness

The thing was wearing a jersey. Somewhere in a distant corner of his brain he seemed to remember it being the team Renly had said his "friend" had liked so much. He'd been blond too.

Stannis sat there, alone on the law. The jay called again off in the wood, and he could feel the dew seeping into his clothing under him. His hands were shaking.

Carefuly he stood. The croquet mallet hung dumbly at his side, red and thick and all he wanted to do was throw it away from him as hard as he could but his hand wouldn't seem to let it go. He swallowed hard and pulled his eyes from the thing spread across the lawn. He turned towards the pier, walking, slowly at first, and then as fast as his ankle would allow.

He clattered onto the dock.

Gone. It was gone.

There wasn't a thing in sight- not "Fury", not the motorboat Renly used for his damned wake boarding, not even the rower Stannis had played in as a boy… nothing. Nothing.

Carefully he turned back towards the house. His eyes were suddenly stinging, and when he walked back over the lawn and saw what was left of the body he swallowed sick. Something told him he had to keep moving, something told him he could throw up as much as he wanted to just a little later, but not now. Not now.

The door was open. He still didn't know what to make of that. Suddenly the mallet felt like a lead weight in his hands. He swallowed once, and pushed the door open slowly with his free hand

The creak echoed low and loud into the gathering dark of the house. 

He stepped inside.

It smelled the same as it always had- oaky, almost smoky in places and old, very old and very crisp. Several chairs were knocked over, one or two near the doors. A bookcase had been knocked in front of the entry to the den. There was a stain on the carpet.

Slowly he picked his way over the debris. Nothing taken. Nothing stolen- but had he really thought there would be?

His fingers danced idly over the handle of the mallet in his hand as he stepped deeper into the house- hating how each creak of his own steps made his heart jump in his chest, despising how he was almost afraid to turn any corner.

"Mr. Stannis!" A voice suddenly cried through the silence.

It shocked him so much that he almost cried out but he stopped himself just, turning towards the voice he had known since he was a child.

"Cressen!" He called, wincing inwardly at how much feeling had clambered into his voice. He almost sounded like a boy again, calling out for the old man after Robert had pushed him in the sea or broken one of his models. When his parent had died, Cressen, their butler (he hated that word truly, 'guardian' was how Stannis had introduced him to people all through high school) was all they had left to care for them- even if Robert had left so soon after and Stannis had been the one Renly truly looked to for support and love.

"My boy!" Cressen called, stumbling over towards him and locking his hand in his. His face was worn and tired and there was fear writhing under the surface.

"What happened?" Stannis asked.

"I don't know, I don't--" The old man's voice trailed, "I heard, on the radio, and I came as soon as I heard."

"Came?" Stannis asked sharply, "Came from where? You live here."

"I used to live here," Cressen insisted, "Mr. Renly thought it would be- well, easier to have the house to himself."

Stannis' rage must have been seeping through his eyes because Cressen quickly amended his statement.

"It's fine- truly, I'm just in the cottage down the drive. It's very peaceful, very welcome." The old man smiled in that painfully reassuring way of his.

"Where's Renly now?" Stannis asked, trying to keep his voice steady, not to let the concern show.

"Gone." Cressen said, "There's no sign of him."

Stannis felt his stomach tighten as he asked the question carefully, "No sign?"

Cressen met his eyes and he knew he understood.  The old man shook his head.

"Thank god for that," Stannis heard fall from his lips and he let himself drop into the nearest chair still standing. 

His jacket pulled at his shoulder and he remembered it had ripped. He shrugged it off.

He felt Cressen staring at him. He turned- his eyes were on the gory mallet he was still clutching desperately in one of his hands.

He looked back at Stannis.

"There was something in the garden." Stannis said simply.

"I know," He answered quietly, "I saw."

He let the silence slip for a moment longer and swallowed hard.

"I have to get to Kings Landing," Stannis said, "I was looking for the boat, but--" 

"But it's not here." Cressen said, "The Porche _is_ still in the garage, however." 

"The roads are useless, they're not moving, and I don't think they will be any time soon."

"What else is there?" The old man asked, "Kings Landing is far from a short journey."

Stannis ground his jaw, "I suppose the back roads might be clear, maybe further away from the city the highway will open. It can't stay like this forever."

Something in the old man's face made Stannis feel he thought he was wrong about that particular statement.

Stannis stood, his knees feeling a little more stable now. Renly was gone, the boat was gone. He hoped that meant what he thought it must.

"I don't think Renly's ever properly understands the concept of petrol stations." Stannis said as he started to pick his way back towards the front door, "I'd be shocked if there was more than a teaspoon of fuel in the tank."

Cressen almost laughed behind him. It was a rather desperate choked sound.

Is this was going mad felt like- wandering around your home with a bloody croquet mallet and shoes with skull and brain still splattered on them making snide remarks about relatives?

It was either that, or let himself start shaking again, and that was certainly not an option, even if there was nothing to be done about the lead ball sinking deeper and deeper into his stomach.

Stannis felt himself stop before the front door and peer out, fingering the mallet. It seemed still- just as before. He stepped out onto the stairs.

The garage wasn't  far, just to the left of the drive circle. He started by hurrying, but then remembered Cressen's hip and offered him an arm to get down the stairs. The old man didn't have his cane with him and Stannis furrowed his brow. 

Once they were on the drive he could move easier and they hurried towards the garage. Stannis hauled the doors open, pushing them aside and ducking into the musty shadows, stepping towards the car. It had been a present for Renly's sixteenth birthday from Robert. Stannis had nearly fumed about giving something so expensive and ostentatious to a boy who had wrecked their father's old car when he was thirteen. 

It looked as if it hadn't been used for years. Renly always got bored of his toys. Stannis ran a disapproving finger over the dust that had gathered on the hood.

"The least he could have done was covered it." He muttered.

"Never mind," Cressen said softly, "The keys?"

Stannis tried the door- unlocked- shameful. He leaned down and peered inside.

"They're here."

He heard Cressen sigh noticeably in relief. The old man seemed more shaken that he'd noticed at first. He'd seen the man in the garden. Stannis found himself wondering what else he had seen that he wasn't telling him.

Stannis leaned the mallet against the side of the car, put a hand on the roof and ducked inside, making a soft "tsk" with his tongue and throwing the seat back instinctively so there was room for his legs.

He turned the key- it started- just. 

With a glance at the indicator he swore under his breath- past the "E" and by a long while. It made absolutey no sense- even letting the tank get to the quarter mark was pushing his level of comfort, that fact that some people could just…

"Stannis-" Cressen's voice cut in.

"Mm?" He answered, still staring at disturbing indicator.

"Is it…?"

"Empty, or just about to be," He said, "Is there any petrol about the house?"

"Renly wasn't very good at 'basic nessessities'," Cressen said.

Stannis snorted.

"But maybe, in the basement. I made sure there were some basic things down there after the storm last spring. And the generator should have some."

Stannis nodded, and climbed out of the car, "Let's go then- we can get some basic supplies as well and then be on our way."

Slamming the door he let his hand find the mallet again as they stepped towards the house. They walked towards the open door carefully. His shirt felt clammy against his skin- it was foolish- nerves wouldn't help a thing.

They were half way across the drive when he heard the wooden smack.

He and Cressen spun, and he heard the old man groan.

They were coming around the garage. One had fallen slightly against the side of the wooden doors as it dragged itself round, the gravel crunching as it staggered towards them.

There were more- and more, staggering around the side of the garage and stepping towards them, reaching, needing. The skin hung in raw strips. One was missing it's jaw, tongue lolling down it's throat green with rot. The closest looked almost like the gardner he had hired five years ago- or might have looked like her if half the flesh on it's face had not been torn free.

"Go," Cressen whispered, "Go, go!"

Stannis locked his arm under the old man's and started to drag him as quickly as he could back towards the house.

He turned towards the door and instantly saw a rotten face looming directly in front of him, teeth open and gaping.

The mallet shattered into the side of the wretched thing's head and when it staggered back he dove forward, hand like the vice on the old man's arm.

"Stannis," Cressen was stammering behind him.

He didn't listen, he was too busy staring ahead. They were coming around the house. More of them. So many more.

His breathe was catching in his chest. He heard Cressen's voice stagger in his throat as he came to a stop behind him.

"They're at the steps," he stammered, "They'll get in." 

"No," Stannis said, gritting his teeth hard, "They won't."

He hit the first one in the back of the skull, the crack must have been loud but it was almost misty in his ears. 

The next reached out for him and he hit the arm first and then the front of what had been it's face- it crumbled and sank away under the blow, like the rot of an old tree stump being kicked in.

There was another, and another. Something hot and wet slashed across his neck but he hardly noticed. They were at the steps now. There was one just at the door and as it reached dumbly out for him the mallet took off it's jaw on the first swig and struck it down into the shrubs on the second.

Someone cried out behind him. He turned, eyes wide with terror and adrenaline. It was the one that looked as if she'd been the gardener. Her face was buried in Cressen's arm. Stannis hit her hard and when she fell there was a vicious tearing sound and half the old man's forearm went with her.

Cressen screamed.

Stannis could feel his breath burning in his chest.

"It's fine it's fine it will be fine," Spilled out of him thoughtlessly, breathlessly as he stared into the old man's face, hardly noticing how close the others had gotten.

He turned desperately back to the door, tugging him pulling him, he felt him step once, twice and then something stopped him.

Stannis turned, all he saw were the hands on Cressen's shoulders, the hands on his knees, the hands on his chest, and the old mans eyes as he pushed Stannis harder then he could have believed possible inside the house, slamming to door behind him.

The force of the shove was so great that he fell, sliding over the wood of the entry.

"NO!" He yelled and threw himself back up.

He scrambled across the floor and his hand hit the door and prepared to pull, but through the blood stained glass he saw, and he knew it was too late.

He stared as long as he possibly could and then spun, back against the wood, one hand firmly over his mouth. Slowly he slid to the floor.

There was something hot on his face. His eyes were burning.

He couldn't be crying. He hadn't cried since his parents had died- not when Robert teased him, not when he'd told him he had to leave the academy, not when Selyse had finally left, not even when the court decided it was best for Shireen to go with her- but all he could see was the old man's kind eyes, sitting with him late at night with the textbooks spread over the kitchen table, looking at the brochures from the police academies and smiling at Stannis' excitement, holding his shoulder as he watched silently the shovelfuls of dirt drop over his mother's grave.

He wasn't crying. He couldn't be crying.

He could still hear the sounds, wet, tearing, ripping sounds. His hands smashed over his ears and he shut his eyes as tight as he could, gritting his teeth hard as his chest burned and his fingers dug into his skin.

The scratching started.

He jolted, turning away from the door as if it had become red hot. His hand snapped out, slipping on the lock once and then turned it into place. Immediately after his hand left he saw the handle shake and rattle in it's place.

He didn't want to move. He wanted to sit there, sink down onto the floor and breath the fire out of his chest, blink the burn from his eyes.

The door rattled again.

He took a deep, shaky breath.

Awkwardly Stannis stumbled backwards onto his feet, wiping a hand desperately under his nose. He stared around. There were no windows by the door. There was that at least. He wanted to go to the nearest one on the side room's easter wall, peer out, see if the way was clear, but he could't seem to manage it just yet. They could still be…

He shook his head, supplies, that was easier- supplies. He backed away carefully from the rattling door and turned towards the basement. By the time he got to the steps the house was almost completely dark. There was a torch inside the door, at least Renly hadn't run down that power on that. It flicked to life in his hand, shining a dull white circle onto the stony steps in front of him. Carefully, he descended.

The light scanned over the old stones: nothing. There was absolutely nothing. He swore to himself there in the dark. But it made sense didn't it? If Renly had taken the boat, he would have taken the fuel- he'd never learned to properly sail the thing.

Stannis turned, the curses still fresh on his lips, and stumbled up the stairs. When he reached the top he realized how sticky his hands felt and looked down, barely seeing the slick shine of blood in the darkness. A small disgusted sound found it's way out of his throat and he half fell into the hallway bathroom, flicking the light on thoughtlessly. His hands scrambled at the sink and the water started to pour. He scrubbed the blood desperately, watching with sickness rolling in his gut how brown the water turned under his fingers. After a moment he stopped and looked up. He saw his reflection.

There was a strip of bright red running across the light blue of his buttoned shirt, the side of his neck, and ending just under his jaw.

His arm flew up and pawed at his face so hard it hurt. He splashed water over his neck, scrubbing, almost clawing really at the stain and then his hands were red again and he fell back to those and after a moment panting and exhausted he stopped with both hands tight on the sides of the sink, watching the vaguely brown water drip down into the white marble bowl.

_You have to look. You know you have to look._

He swallowed hard and stood, turning the light off and rolling the torch in his hand as he left the bathroom.

He walked up the long staircase,  his shirt damp and sticky around the neck. When he got to the landing of the second floor he turned and walked towards the upper windows. He looked out. It was dark, utterly dark- not even a moon to form dim shapes in the night.

His hand reached out, lingered for a moment on the switch and then snapped.

The flood lights shattered to life, shooting bright white rays across the estate.

There were dozens… hundreds. They stared up into the brightness dumb and dead and desperate.

He stepped back from the window. As quickly as he could and moved to the other side of the house, the windows looking out into the garden. There were more… so many more.

Where had they come from? Where the hell had they all come from?

He switched off the light.

_They'll be gone in the morning. I'll just wait until morning._

Somewhere downstairs glass broke.

Blocking all the windows would take too much time. Upstairs was the best option. He could see them all, where they were coming from, where they were thickest, pick the best moment to run. 

Carefully and quickly he went downstairs one last time. The kitchen was almost bare- but he took what was left. The hunting guns were gone along with all the ammunition. He didn't drink as a general rule, but when he got to the bar he pulled the nearest bottle of scotch into his fist, tore the cork free with his teeth, spat it, and took one long deep gulp and then another. He pulled his head back with a gasp and wiped his mouth on his sleeve carelessly. 

Within a few moments he had gathered up what was left in the bar, and after depositing the bottles on the second story landing, pulled some boards clean of the busted bookcase, found the nails and hammer in the kitchen store room, and sealed off the stairs from above, shutting off the lower level as well as he was able.

_They'll be gone in the morning._

His body felt as if it was about to fall to pieces. He hadn't noticed how hard he'd been swinging the mallet at the time but now his shoulder felt like it was made of lead. Suddenly all he wanted to do was collapse on the floor but instead he walked across the upper landing into his father's old office. No one ever went in there, and everything had been kept just as he had left it all those years ago. The pen he'd used to sign was set to the right of the desk, and the letter opener was set carefully just to the left.

Stannis let his knuckles rest for a moment on the heavy dark wood of the desktop. He stood in silence for a while. It was so still here. Even Renly wouldn't come to this place. 

His long fingers moved across the table and dropped down to the top right-hand drawer. His hand lingered there, terrified for a moment that it would be locked. He tugged, and the drawer gently slid open. Without looking he dropped his hand inside, pushed aside some papers and felt the heavy cold metal.

He'd been six when he'd first found it, wandering into the office and timidly exploring. Lifting all of his father's things, delicately sitting in his seat and imagining as well as he could what it would be like to be him for a day. He'd opened the drawer, shuffled the papers, and saw the gun. He'd stared at it, touched it lightly, and then shut the drawer tight and left, terrified that somehow someone would know what he had done, that someone would smell his guilt and punish him. 

He'd been right to be frightened he thought now, letting his hand slip around the metal and lift it free from the drawer. Even in his large hands the thing felt obscenely large- like something from a film. It would have almost seemed fake if it wasn't for the weight of it. The barrel was longer than the full length of his hand and the wooden handle folded into his palm easily. 

Stannis had learned to handle weapons. His father had wanted to teach him when he was young but he hadn't shown the enthusiasm that Robert had an in the end he was the one who went on the country trips more often then not. Even when Stannis did go it was always the bird rifles he used, and rather clumsy at that. He hadn't handled things like this until the Academy. He'd decided far too young that he wanted to be a police officer. The Academy had been some of his happiest years, until that day, and the call from Robert. He'd left it all behind to do what he asked, to take the business, to do his duty.

He snapped the revolver to one side and peered in. It was loaded. He cursed his father for a moment in the face of such stupidity and then reached back in and was grateful for the case of .44 bullets his fist closed around.

He dropped the small cardboard box into his pants pocket and heard the bullets tinkle softly. He made sure the safety was checked on and slid the gun under his belt. Maybe there was still a shoulder holster in his room, he could check but instead he found himself sitting down in the tall leather desk chair and leaning back, eyes shutting almost instantly.

_They'll be gone in the morning._

…They weren't gone in the morning.

He spent that first day trying to think of the best way to clear a path, but it was no use. One of the things he'd always treasured about the house was the way it sat on a ledge that jutted out towards the sea, but now that made things more complicated. 

The woods didn't begin until about halfway around the front of the house, so even if he could make it out the back- which was less likely since the things didn't seem to care much which side of the house they were on as long as they were as close as possible to it. If he got down to the shore he could swim- but that had it's own risks. The ammunition, the gun, and most of all the papers that had brought him here in the first place would all have to be securely wrapped and there was always the chance that they might leak and everything would have been wasted. He could fashion some sort of float for them to sit on while he swam behind, but the thought of getting down to the shore with his hands full of whatever he had constructed made him more nervous than risking the path to his bike. 

But all of that was moot. He was stuck, and no matter how he decided he could make his escape once he was outside, he still had to get there. He had six shots, that was all really, the ammunition didn't matter. Once he was out, there would be no time to reload. And six shots was simply not enough.

He'd heard glass break several times that day but didn't think he could hear anything inside just yet. Even so, he'd reinforced the blockade over the stairway and felt confident in it's ability to hold.

It was useless to think about getting out now. Not until they cleared. Tomorrow maybe.

But the next day came, and the next and still they remained.

On the third day he'd opened a window, ripped up one of the sheets and balled the cloth inside a bottle of Robert's favorite bourbon. He set the flame with the blowtorch he'd brought from the basement, let it catch on the cloth and tossed the bottle down.

He watched as it shattered, and the small "foom!" sounded as it caught. But the only thing that changed was the sound of licking flames and the dull glow of orange.

They pushed on, struggling against the stone walls, stretching their arms through the windows, seemly unaware of the living fire on their backs. One or two of the more rotten ones seemed to almost combust under the heat, but the effects were small and most were raw enough and fresh enough that after mere minutes the flames died from their skin as they stared ahead through charred flesh that seemed to serve them just as well.

The knot in his throat tightened and he turned to look back at his pile of supplies. There were three cans of beans, some jam, maybe two jars of pickles. The water in the bathroom still ran, but he'd taken to heating it to a boil with the blowtorch before letting himself drink.

It wasn't enough. And each day it was less.

He'd properly scavenged the upstairs. His room turned up an old short-wave radio, and a welcome change of clothes. He exchanged what was left of his suit for some worn in dark brown khakis, a grey t-shirt, a white button up shirt that he'd always liked, and finally some better boots and his old olive trench coat. Scavenging Robert's room had earned him a good backpack, a hunting knife, some climbing ropes, several flares, a packet of dangerously old beef jerky (it took Stannis more will that it should have to not it tear open and shove down his throat on the spot), and a heavy satellite phone. It was all stashed in a bag in his closet behind a box full of pornography that Stannis was desperately tempted to burn with the torch and would have if he hadn't feared setting the whole place on fire.

He dragged everything out into the main room and started packing the bag with anything that might be useful.

Robert had always put him in charge of the radio and sat-phone the rare occasions he was invited out into the country. He hadn't minded and was grateful for it now as he switched it on, scanning the channels. There were no answers, no signals, nothing. He was alone. The weight of the gun suddenly seemed heavy against his side. He glanced over to the food- there were two cans remaining.

He set an S.O.S. beacon as well as he could, left the radio in an easy location in the middle of the floor and leaned back against the wall. His throat was tight again. His stomach felt like a steel knot. He shut his eyes.

He dreamed of the sea. Waves lapped against the side of _Fury_ pleasantly. He could feel the wind on his face and the sun at his back. 

 _"Renly!"_ He called out and the little boy turned smiling, just as he had been when Stannis had first tried to teach him to sail. 

 _"Stannis!"_ He called back, _"The clouds… the clouds, I'm afraid."_

Stannis turned and suddenly the sky was black. The waves rolled and rocked and crashed against them so hard he had to grab the side of the deck not to fall over board. The rain tore down his face, in his eyes, stinging like salt.

He looked towards the bow, calling out but it wasn't a boy who looked back it was the young man that boy had become.

 _"Renly!"_ Stannis cried. But he couldn't seem to hear him. His eyes were so full of fear, the ropes lashing angry and useless in the wind- the waves growing larger and larger.

Renly stared in horror and Stannis spun just as the water shattered down around him.

He fell, floating in the dark. A soft hand closed on his wrist. He saw his mother's face- her hair drifting weightless in the water, her eyes full of love, lips smiling ever so slightly. He reached out to touch her face and his hand sunk into her rotten skin.

With a gasp he shot awake.

He was awake- wasn't he?

Disjointedly he moved across the floor, his feet kicking the long since empty cans and jars that had contained his meager supplies, sending them rolling with a small hollow sound across the wooden floor.

Lightning flashed outside the window and he thought he saw Robert's face. He reached for the water he'd saved, his hand shaking. He drank it despite how much it tasted like salt. A pain vicious shot through his stomach, so that he doubled over, gasping out.

He stared down at the wooden boards under him. He could almost see fingers grasping, tearing them back, and through the hole he saw Cressen's face, grey with rot, eyes peering dumbly up at him and when the old man opened his mouth there was nothing but blood.

Stannis fell to his knees. 

It was so dark in the room. The scratching seemed louder, so close, almost inside his very skull.

A soft red light blinked on and off, on and off. Somehow his hand found the radio. He rolled over onto his back. Was the scratching there too? Under the floor boards against his skin?

"I don't…" He stammered, hardly feeling his fingers pushing on the buttons of the radio, "I don't know what to do… I can't… there's no way, no way out… too many ways in- it has to get to Kings Landing- it has to even if I…"

The dark room danced around him, the dull grey twilight through the window reflecting the rain running down onto the ceiling over head. Was there a hand there? Smearing the liquid aside as Cressen's must have done as he slammed the door shut.

"Why did he do it?" Stannis said out loud. There was the burning feeling in his eyes again, "He didn't need to- why the bloody hell did he have to do it?"

_Hullo?_

Was that a voice? It was almost crackling, and so very far away. 

_Hullo?_

His own voice- out in the garden, the thing turning to look at him, the face- a face he knew- he'd still had some of his hair, blonde hair, blonde hair that Renly had pushed aside playfully that time he and the lad had surprised Stannis for lunch at the office. The blonde had put three damn spoonfuls of sugar in his coffee. Renly could hardly take his eyes off him. Stannis couldn't remember his name.

"I'm sorry…" His voice cracked in the dark. He should drink, he knew that, but it hurt so much, "I'm so sorry…"

He felt a hand in his hair, stroking calmly back and forth, just like his mother used to do when he couldn't sleep.

When he looked up he could almost see her face, "I said I would look after him… I'm so sorry."

And then it wasn't his mothers face, but Shireen's with the scar blazed over her cheek, smiling at him like she always did, like he was some damned hero who could do no wrong- was that how he had looked at Robert when he was young?

His throat caught a sob and he reached out for her hand. Nothing. Nothing but the cold air and the distant sound of breaking wood, breaking glass.

 _"Hullo! Hullo! Are you there?"_  

The radio slipped from his fingers and clattered to the floor.

The gun felt heavy against his side, heavy and cold and real. His fingers slipped on their own, wrapping around the smooth wood of the grip. There were crashes downstairs, he couldn't be imagining that. 

_They're inside. It's only a matter of time._

His hand pulled the gun out from under his belt. It felt too heavy in his hand, even heavier than when he was a boy.

The wood was creaking over the stairs, breaking.

_Five shots. And then one more._

He rolled over and pulled himself to his knees, the heavy metal of the gun clanking dumbly on the wooden floor.

He fell back against the wall under the window.

The radio blinked red in the darkness- still, silent.

He stared at the stairs, watching as the boards shook and rattled against the nails.

The gun was heavy, too heavy. He bent one knee and supported it on that. It was hard to see but he squinted against the darkness. His thumb pulled back the hammer.

There was a bang. A big bang.

The windows on the far side of the room glowed suddenly in yellow and orange and red.

Stannis stumbled to his feet and hurried across, falling hard against the frame to stare out into the night.

There was a boat at the dock- or half of a boat, the other half was in flaming pieces flung over the shore.

The things were moving- they were actually moving, streaming in a slow sad bunch towards the noise and the light of the burning ship, away from the house.

His breath was coming fast now and then the loudest crack yet sounded behind him. One board shattered upwards and a mottled grey hand scrambled after it, pulling a moaning body behind. It looked at him, and Stannis shot.

_One._

It's head exploded backwards, but already several more were tearing what was left of the body out of the way in their eagerness to reach the opening, as if they could smell his living sweat above them.

His feet stumbled backwards- his legs were so weak, he could hardly stand at all. They were between him and the rest of the house, he couldn't even get to the office without stepping over them.

Two more raised above the floor. He got the first one in the neck.

_Two._

 ---The second in the temple. 

_Three._

The headshot victim fell but the other just kept climbing towards him, a thick black pus oozing from what had been his throat. He got it through the cheek.

 _Four_. 

There were three sets of arms clambering upwards. Sweat was stinging his eyes. He stepped back and felt the wall behind him. They were standing now, three of them- _three of them._

One reached out, close enough to touch him.

The brains burst from the back of it's head as he squeezed the trigger.

_Five._

_One more. One more._ They were, close, so close, the smell of rot choking him, their hands almost on him.

He gritted his teeth and raised the gun to his head.

The shot exploded and blood splashed across his face. He stared with wide eyes as the first one fell. And then the second barrel emptied and the third was down, crashing to the ground headless as Stannis stared at the buckshot shattered wall behind it. 

A hand was on his shoulder.

"You alright? Did they get'cha?"

The voice was kind, rough, but kind, and there, and alive, and real: so very very real.

Stannis shook himself and breathed hard, the air filling his lungs, his wrist letting the gun fall to his side.

"No… no."

"Thank the gods," The voice muttered, "Thought I'd be too late."

Stannis turned and looked at his savior for the first time. The man was older than he was, but not by much- a thin beard covered most of his face. He had messy brown hair, and eyes that matched his voice- kind but quick, solid and deadly sincere. He was thin, but somehow seemed at least rather strong. He had a shotgun still tucked tight against his shoulder.

"You saved me." Stannis managed.

"Not yet," The man almost smiled, "We still have to get out, and if we're going we have to go now, I don't know how long that boat will keep them distracted."

"The boat," His brain was still fuzzy but the mist was clearing in the bitter taste of adrenaline, "That was your boat… you blew it up?"

"Wasn't my boat exactly," He answered, reloading the shotgun as he glanced around the room, "Sorry thing was all that was left at the marina by the time I got there- she wouldn't of held together much longer anyways."

Something about the man's face made Stannis think he might be lying but he was too exhausted to tell or to care.

"My bag," He muttered, "We have to get my bag," He stepped forward and almost fell.

The man caught him under his arm. His hand felt warm and solid- Stannis tried to right himself properly and managed it, pulling away and tugging his bag off of the floor.

"Christ…" The man was staring at him in an almost sickening way, "You're skin and bones…"

Stannis didn't have an answer for that. He put the bag over his back and touched the letter reassuringly in his breast pocket.

"I'm ready," He said hoarsely.

The man was still staring at him uneasily, "Are you sure you're alright?"

"No," Stannis said, "But I am ready."

The man nodded to himself and snapped the barrels of the shotgun into place.

"I saw the side entrance, by the kitchen, we'll go out that way, make it to the road before they leave the boat."

"There's a car," Stannis said, marveling at how strange his voice sounded after long disuse, "In the garage."

"The roads are useless, blocked, or worse." The bearded man answered.

"It would be a good start." Stannis said.

"Aye, it would, but then it wouldn't be able to go no farther and they'd have heard it half a mile off and come to see the sound and we wouldn't be in a good spot then."

Stannis tightened his jaw, "The side door?"

The man leaned his shotgun over his shoulder and kicked some of the boards away, "Aye, the side door."

Stannis stepped after him, reloading the magnum with the bullets from his pocket as he went.

The man shoved the last boards covering the stairs out of the way and slunk down, glancing quickly behind him to make sure Stannis was still coming. 

It seemed that the only ones who had made it in had died there on the stairs. Most of the windows were broken, and the door was just about off it's hinges.

Stannis glanced about into the darkness of the corners, trying to keep his eyes focused and ignore the pain in his gut and the protesting of his body.

There were shadows passing the windows. Something was pushing against the door.

Stannis hurried after his savior and before too long the kitchen door was in front of them.

They kicked the barricades away from the door and pushed it open. His companion swore. Someone had moved the refrigerator in front of the screen door to the back garden.

"Can we move it?" He asked.

"Someone did- we can try." Stannis answered even though his arms could hardly lift the gun in his hands.

The man leaned into the side and began to push. Stannis shoved next to him, trying desperately not to faint.

The heavy metal actually started to give, he only realized just too late it was moving the wrong way.

"Look out!" He cried and grabbed the man's arm to tug him away.

It all happened very fast- he felt the arm stop under him, held back by something. He turned just in time to see as he fell the sleeve of the man's sweater looped around a hinge, trapping him and the fear in his eyes and then the heavy metal crashed to the floor and all that was left was floating dust and a screaming cry echoing through the night.

The man bit his lip as well as he could to stifle his screams but as Stannis scrambled over the debris he could hear him whimpering through his teeth.

"What happened?" He asked desperately, putting a hand on his shoulder.

The man could hardly speak, "My- my hand."

Stannis stared down. The man's fingers were trapped under the thick metal that had hit the ground so hard it had cut into the wood of the floor.

Something snapped and Stannis spun to see hands tearing at what the falling fridge had revealed: a screen door between them and the monsters, and there were more of them. They had heard the scream.

"Shit, shit!" The man swore desperately, shaking his head back and forth and staring in horror as the hands tore at the screen door.

Stannis threw his full weight into the metal. It didn't so much as budge.

Wood snapped on the door. The moans were getting louder.

The man had started shaking, "It's no use… it's no use- just, just--"

"No," Stannis said, hating how terrified he sounded, "No it's going to be fine its--"

Something shone on the counter and caught his eye. Within a second he was on his feet and pulling it into his hand.

The first one stepped into the kitchen gasping out with a sickening cry. Stannis shot it through the head.

The man stared at it and then at him and then at the meat cleaver in his hands.

He moaned without opening his mouth but nodded viciously all at once.

Stannis scrambled back. His breath hot, his head almost dizzy. He threw the gun to the side just as the second came through the lingering remains of the door and another shot echoed through the night.

He reached him, kicking the debris out of the way, staring down suddenly at the man who had saved him. He was pale, a thin sheen of sweat over his face, shoulders shaking violently as his lips seemed to be dumbly murmuring something, eyes slammed shut.

Another board shattered. His brown eyes burst open.

"DO IT!" He screamed, "FOR FUCK SAKE JUST DO IT!"

And he did.

The scream shattered in his ears but he didn't let himself hear it. The cleaver had been duller that he'd thought. He raised it again.

This time he heard the bones break.

A clawed hand locked on his shoulder and then fell back as the shotgun sounded viciously in his ears. He'd never understood how he managed to squeeze the trigger through the pain.

But there were more, so many more.

Stannis scrambled to his feet and locked his hands under his arms. He took one deep breath a pulled.

The man screamed as the final shreds of skin ripped free and then he was on his feet.

Stannis' hand was shaking, but they were close enough- his aim didn't have to be good. He took one and then another and then another. They reeled back and he took the only moment he was likely to get, barreling through the falling bodies hard and dragging behind him the man trying desperately to press the blood into his hand and keep hold of the shotgun all at once.

There were more on the lawn, streaming back towards the house away from the flashing orange light of the boat. Their long shadows stood out sharply against the fire at their backs, tall and black and coming, always coming, but it didn't matter. He could smell the sea, he could feel rain on his face. He almost laughed.

The man's mutilated hand was so tight his shoulder that it would have been quite painful, if he could feel anything any longer. The man was still trying to walk. He wasn't doing very well- it didn't matter, Stannis was just about carrying him anyways.

Stannis looked around them one last time. The tall back shapes poured over the lawn, spilling out from around the front of the house, staggering up from the dock, dragging their way out of the woods. The house stared down at him, cold, still- broken windows turned orange in the light of the burning boat, sending the light dancing off the rain soaked stones. 

His feet stepped backwards, holding onto the man beside him tighter then he'd held onto anything in his life.

Suddenly his foot slipped and there was nothing but air underneath it. He stumbled, regaining his footing and turned to look over his shoulder.

Below there was nothing but black and the sound of the sea.

Robert had dared him to jump once. Long ago.

A strangled sound that might have been a laugh found it's way out of his throat. He turned back to the house. Nothing. Nothing but the fire and the long shadows closing in all around him. He looked down at the man and was shocked to see him staring up at him. He looked for a moment longer, tighten his arms around him, and then he jumped.

There was nothing but the air and the sound and then the sea shattered into them.

He must have swam. He didn't know how. He couldn't remember swimming. He remembered pulling the man after him onto the rocky shore. He remembered the almost painful relief when he opened his eyes. 

They'd dragged themselves out of the surf.

"You're starved." Was the very first thing the man said.

"You're still bleeding." He'd answered.

"You can eat… I brought food- in my bag, there's food--"

"Bleeding first." Stannis said, his to stomach hating him for it all the while.

He'd almost cried with joy when he'd unzipped Robert's old hunting bag and reached inside to dry supplies and nothing else. He let his hand brush over the letter, dry, safe, and still very much there.

They had no needles. They had no gauze. The look on the man's face when he pulled the blowtorch from the bag would stay with him until he died- the screams likely longer than that.

After the first finger he'd started babbling. Begging him to stop mindlessly, but almost biting down the words as they slipped out.

But Stannis didn't stop. He knew he couldn't stop.

He'd cauterized three fingers before the poor man fainted and when he finished the fourth Stannis had stumbled to his feet and emptied his guts into the sea. It must have been his guts- there was nothing else left to vomit. 

His desperate body and that alone led him staggering to his companion's satchel. He had to stop himself from tearing it clean in two. His searching hand found an onion and he ripped it free, biting hard and not even caring about the papery shell in his mouth. The white juice ran down his face and the smell made his eyes water but it didn't matter, nothing mattered, it tasted better than anything he'd eaten in his life. 

In the morning his eyes pulled themselves open to a bright grey sky overhead. He rolled over on the rocks, every muscle in his body protesting. His companion was awake. He was staring at his hand.

Stannis sat up and the man looked at him sharply with the kind earnest eyes of his still slanted in pain.

"I don't think it will infect," The man managed, "Salt water's good for some things." And then after a moment, "Thank you."

"No…" Stannis muttered, his throat was raw from salt and he could hardly seem to make it work, "it's my fault, if you hadn't come--"

"I didn't come for that." He said quietly. 

"I know," Stannis said, "That's why--"

"No. You don't understand. I came for the boats." His voice was almost as raw as his own and he looked so very tired. There was guilt in his eyes.

"The boats…"

"I knew your family had decent boats, better than the wreck I'd found in the marina. I came to steal one and… and for the supplies."

Stannis seemed to be having a hard time putting his words together in his mind, "The supplies…"

The man took a deep shaky breath, "Your family isn't around all that often are they? That house of yours, it's out on the point, out of the line of sight from the city, but close enough to still get to the marina by taking the currents along the cove."

He was staring at his fingers. He couldn't quite seem to look away.

"There's a cave down there, at the bottom of that ledge a little ways off the dock."

"I know," Stannis said, Robert had made them play there when they were little, until their father found them out.

"It's a good place…" The man said, "… A good place to keep things. Out of sight. Out of the way."

"Drugs." Stannis said without look at him.

"No."

"Guns." He tried.

"Yes."

Stannis tried to stand and barely succeeded, turning his back to the man as he looked out at the sea.

"You came for the guns?"

"Yes."

"But you didn't take them…" He said, and then turned back, "Why?"

The man looked into his eyes, "I had a radio… I heard--"

His voice trailed off.

Stannis found himself repeating facts, which was strange. He'd always hated when people did that, but still the words fell from him.

"You could have run, with guns, with supplies, with a boat. But you blew up the boat, and you left the guns, and you left the supplies... and you came to get me."

The man didn't answer, simply stared at him in a rather strange way.

Stannis swallowed and then cleared it throat, pulling his eyes away, "What's your name?"

"What?" The man asked.

"Your name. I assume you know mine, you've been lurking about our shoreline for years after all."

"Davos," He said awkwardly, "Robert…?"

"No!" Stannis almost yelled despite himself and then quieted his voice somewhat in embarrassment, "Stannis…"

"Sorry," Davos said, almost half smiling, "They said Robert was tall, black hair, blue eyes."

"We all have black hair and blue eyes."

Stannis caught a glance at him, shocked that he was almost smiling, "Fine, sorry… Stannis."

After a moment Stannis spoke again.

"I'm going to King's Landing." He said, not really knowing himself if it was an invitation.

"Well, at least there's that," The man said, leaning back against the rock he'd slept on, "So am I." 

\---

 

Stannis found his eyes were sinking shut despite himself. 

The darkness seemed slightly lighter then before, he could almost see the looming shadows of the tree line again, the abandoned swing still gently swaying in the night.

Davos was still infuriatingly awake, cleaning the shotgun, waiting for him to inevitably slip off like he always seemed to.

The rain on the tin roof seemed quieter.

 _She'll be there._ His drifting mind murmured, s _he has to be._

And even if she wasn't, somehow he knew, no matter how strange it might be, no matter how little he understood it, he would never be alone.


End file.
